on the schoolyard I saw children fall and soon learnt that I would always fetch a bandaid without hesitation.

I thought mother must’ve skinned her knee too.
Why else could she be crying?

And father, oh father,
he cried because his dad had died.
Was it finance?
Was it finance?
Was it really finance?

Oh mother,
bloom,
careful artist.

Father,
square, leather
so soft upon conditioning.

The fissure in both of you;
I inhabit the crack,
and before I knew what fiber was
I was shouting for a rope.  

Loveless not, mother and father,
they tell me this was how it is.
yet the knowledge of a wholeness
I will never know is inside me.

Release! I begged for release.
and when I found it I gave my scorn to what?

The combatants had retreated long ago.